Talismans
by Kittystitch
Summary: What's left after you've given up on faith and luck?
1. Chapter 1

**Talismans**

From this height, Chief could see across the wide lawns and sculptured gardens to the mansion, rising stately and solid above the trees. From this distance, it could hide its frayed edges and neglected corners. The setting sun glinted from the leaded glass windows, and the turrets gleamed with the pinkish glow of the sunset, like something from a fairytale. It was hardly a fairytale, but it had become home.

Chief pounded a final nail into his last shingle, then shoved the hammer into its loop on his utility belt. He grabbed his shirt from where he'd tossed it over the peak of the roof, wiped his sweaty face with it, and tossed it over the edge of the roof.

"Hey, watch it, mate!" Goniff untangled his head and shoulders from the grimy shirt.

"You're lucky, dad." Chief slid down the roof and easily dropped the remaining six feet to the ground. He snatched his shirt back from Goniff. "Coulda been the hammer."

"Funny."

In the shade of an ancient oak, a cooler of water sat at the end of the charred picnic table they'd salvaged to use as a work bench. The water tasted of metal, but it was wet and cold. Chief downed a full cup and poured another one over his head.

The new shed they'd been working on was almost done. It wasn't as big as the original, the one they'd burned down earlier in the year, but it'd be more than large enough to stow the estate's grounds-keeping equipment. He'd enjoyed the challenge of figuring out the blueprints and turning them into an actual building, even if this whole exercise had been meant as punishment for the fiasco in London. They'd only been a little late getting back from the weekend leave. And they really hadn't needed the MP escort. But Garrison had been steamed.

"Need more shingles?" Casino hefted a heavy bundle from the back of the pickup truck.

"Naw, man, I'm done." Chief scrubbed a hand through his wet hair. "It's almost dark."

"Done?" Casino snorted a laugh. "You still got time to do another whole row."

What Chief was done with was taking orders from Casino. "Yeah, and who appointed you screw?"

Actor emerged from around the far corner, stripping off his own tool belt. "Well, the Warden did entrust the blueprints to Casino."

"Only cuz his uncle or somebody runs a construction company."

"And cuz it was his idea to burn down the first one," Goniff added with a smirk.

Casino swung on Goniff, raising a threatening finger. "Hey, that was your idea, limey. Don't try to pin that on me. I was the one who almost got barbecued in that bonfire, remember?"

Goniff smiled, dipping his head and backing away, his hands up defensively.

Casino dropped the bundle of shingles with a thud. "Look, the Warden gave me the plans and said to get this thing built before the next mission. The more you slackers goof off, the less time we'll have..."

"Too late." Chief was the first to hear the jeep, before its rooster tail of dust gave it away. He took a deep breath and slipped back into his shirt. "Appears the Warden has more important things for us to do."

The sturdy little jeep skidded to a halt next to the truck, and Garrison climbed from behind the wheel, carrying the inevitable briefcase. He paused and studied the new construction. "Looks just about done. Not quite as sturdy as the original..."

"I went right by the plans, Warden."

"I know, Casino. It's fine, I'm sure."

"But we're not going to be able to finish any time soon, are we, Lieutenant?" Actor stated the obvious, as he followed their commander over to the work table and dropped his tool belt.

Garrison unfolded a map from the briefcase and spread it out, using Actor's tool belt to anchor it down. "We've been assigned to sabotage a munitions factory near Strasbourg." He tapped at a spot on the map and traced the blue lines leading away from it. "From here, the Nazis are supplying their forces in both Italy and France. We need to disrupt that supply. We've tried destroying it from the air, but they have it well fortified with heavy anti-aircraft artillery. We've lost too many good flight crews without doing any real damage."

"What else do we know about it?" A worried frown creased Actor's face. "Any diagrams of the layout?"

"No." Garrison shook his head and lit a cigarette, then pulled some grainy photographs from the briefcase. "We have a few aerial shots, but that's about it. From these we can guess at the troop strength, and what the various structures are used for. Everything else we'll have to determine from the ground."

"What about the local resistance?" Actor's frown deepened. "Surely they must have some intelligence on the facility."

"Not really. I have a contact in the area who's usually pretty reliable. But we haven't been able to get in touch with him."

"So what you're sayin' is we got nothin'," Casino griped. "We're goin' in blind and makin' somethin' up after we get there."

"That's a bit of an exaggeration." Garrison propped a foot on a keg of nails and leaned over, studying the pictures more closely. "We know they have to bring in supplies. And I have a pretty good idea which one of these buildings is used for explosives storage. If we can get a time bomb attached to a supply truck, we have a good chance of setting off a chain reaction that should sufficiently damage the operation."

A chill skittered up Chief's spine as a breeze ruffled his damp shirt. "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow night. We'll have to jump in at least 20 miles from the site and travel the rest of the way on the ground."

"Blimey, ya mean walk? All that way? How come?"

Garrison sighed and folded the maps up around the photos. "So we don't lose another good flight crew. And us along with them."

"Oh. Yeah."

"If we're lucky, we can snatch a car." Garrison shoved the documents back into the briefcase. "Forget about the shed. Spend tomorrow resting up. We fly out at 18:00."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

In the village of Holtzheim, they hadn't found a single car with gasoline. The few they'd come across were sitting abandoned and rusting on the side of the road or in farm yards, waiting for the day when the war was over and rationing ended. So they'd set out on foot toward Strasbourg, dressed as laborers and carrying the appropriate documents and currency.

They'd only traveled a few miles, enough time for Goniff to complain several times about his feet hurting, when a farmer taking produce to market in a horse-drawn cart offered them a ride. While Garrison sat with the driver, discreetly pumping him for information, the rest of them rode in the back with the bushel baskets of wilted greens, carrots, potatoes, and a crate of irate chickens. Chief tuned out the squawking and let the serene beauty of early morning in the French countryside engulf him.

When he was a kid, his grandfather used old copies of "National Geographic" to teach him reading and writing. He'd spent hours alone losing himself in those pictures of exotic, far away places, imagining seeing them for himself some day. This wasn't exactly the way he'd imagined it. But sometimes the beauty was so daunting that even war couldn't diminish it.

As they approached the outer edges of the city, they gave up their ride. After Garrison bought some vegetables and a chicken, the farmer continued on without them.

Picking up the sack containing the indignant chicken, Casino stepped to the side of the road, out of the retreating wagon's cloud of dust. "Plannin' on startin' your own truck farm, Warden?"

"Gifts, Casino." Garrison swung the sack of vegetables over his shoulder. "We're going to the home of that contact I was telling you about. He has a wife and family. It never hurts to come bearing gifts."

Casino held the thrashing sack out away from himself, to keep from getting clawed through the burlap. "Well, I hope it ain't far, cuz I don't think this thing's gonna enjoy the trip."

"Gimme that." Taking the sack from Casino, Chief wrapped the fabric snuggly around the bird and tucked it under his arm like a football. The chicken immediately calmed down. "Ya just gotta know how to treat a lady."

"Good on you, mate." Goniff patted him on the shoulder. "Now we can have a nice, peaceful walk."

Casino just shook his head and fell in behind Actor and Garrison, already headed down the road.

gg gg gg gg gg gg

Maurice Messier's tailor shop was located in what once must have been a prosperous little neighborhood on the edge of Strasbourg. Now many of the buildings were half blown away by Allied bombing. Garrison had explained that Maurice's business had stayed afloat by taking in cleaning and mending for the occupying German forces. He and his family lived behind the shop. He used to rent out the second floor flat, but hadn't had a tenant since the invasion.

When they had entered, they'd found only Mme. Messier manning the shop. She'd been cautious at first, as she should have been with any strangers, but she'd understood the password and knew the countersign, and she'd hurriedly hustled them into her quarters in the back of the building.

"He went into the hills with the other men two months ago, and I haven't seen him since." Marie Messier flitted around the small common room like a nervous little bird, refilling everyone's cup with what passed for coffee these days in occupied France. "I worry about him, but I know he is doing what he thinks is right. Someone would have sent me word if something had happened to him."

Nodding his thanks for the refill, Chief turned his attention back to the window, but it only looked out onto a narrow alley. Next to him on the window seat, the Messier's flaxen-haired eight-year-old daughter Louise sat snuggled into the corner, staring at him, her arms tightly wrapped around a ragged doll. When he smiled at her, she blushed and smiled back, then shyly averted her eyes. All the others sat around the family's dining table, including Matheo, the Messier's twelve-year-old son, as blonde as his sister, but quiet and brooding.

Garrison sipped politely from his cup. "Do you know if any of his associates are still in the area? Someone who might have some information on the munitions plant?"

"No. No one. They were all being watched too closely. They all disappeared together." She set the coffee pot back on the stove and took the chair next to her son. "I believe the Bosh have stopped watching the shop since Maurice left. You are all welcome to stay upstairs for as long as you like. I apologize that it has not been cleaned for some time, but it is dry and comfortable."

"Thank you. We'll take you up on that." Garrison smiled, then turned to the others. "We'll do some reconnaissance this afternoon to see if we can find a good vantage point to..."

"I can show you." It was the first thing Matheo had said since they'd arrived.

"Matty, no. I don't think..."

"But Mama, I know the woods around there better than anyone. I even know some of the guards."

"Matty, this is not a game. These men are..."

"Mama, please, I want to help..."

Garrison broke in, leveling a serious gaze on the kid. "Thanks for your offer, son, but things will get dangerous. You need to be around to protect your mother and sister."

The boy slumped into his chair, back to his sulking.

Draining the remainder of his coffee, Garrison stood and gathered his gear. "Let's get settled in, guys. We've got a busy afternoon ahead of us."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

Chief knew this was going to be one of those extended missions, spending days carefully gathering information and coming up with a plan, then discussing it and revising it, poking at it from every angle, until Garrison was satisfied that it was workable. But even the planning stages involved a lot of risk.

While Actor, Goniff and Casino staked out the road leading up to the plant's main gate, he and the Warden checked out the security along its eastern side. They had scaled the outer barbed wire-topped fence and stayed quietly hidden in the low brush for at least an hour, watching the rutted dirt track that circled the facility inside the fence line. A vehicle carrying a machine gunner and two armed sentries circled slowly every fifteen minutes. When the road was clear, they moved forward through the trees and undergrowth to the second line of fencing that topped a low ridge overlooking the compound. Garrison threw a dead branch against it, and sparks flew. But from this vantage point through the fence, they had a partially unobstructed view of the compound below, nestled in a small, shallow valley. While Garrison settled in with binoculars, Chief skirted the electric fence for a quarter mile in both directions, trying to find a better view.

Before approaching Garrison from behind, Chief signaled his presence with the three-note whistle, then scooted onto his stomach into the leaves next to his commander.

Garrison set down his binoculars and examined the map lying on the ground in front of him. "Any luck?"

"Naw, this is the highest point along this side." Chief picked up the binoculars and scanned the scene below, a warren of drab, square buildings of various sizes surrounding one large warehouse-like structure in the center. Two trucks were backed up to a loading dock, and the men carrying heavy crates onto them looked to be the size of toy soldiers. There was a substantial parade ground in front of the warehouse where a Nazi banner snapped in the breeze, and a squad of men marched through a series of drills. Chief could almost make out the shouted commands that wafted up the hill on the wind. On top of the warehouse, a pair of soldiers manned an anti-aircraft cannon. A second one was partially visible, mounted on top of another building farther to the west. They were angry-looking monsters - hard, cold killing machines. Chief lowered the binoculars.

"I've only seen trucks leave. I haven't seen anything come in." Garrison folded his map, shoved it into his shirt, and watched quietly for a moment, until Chief handed him back the binoculars.

"Maybe they don't get deliveries every day."

"Maybe." Garrison flipped his wrist over and glanced at his watch. "I want to get a look at the north side before it gets too dark."

The rustle of leaves was soft, then a rock skidded downhill. Chief caught Garrison's arm, keeping him from rising. They both held their breath. Another hushed whisper of leaves.

Chief rose and ducked into the bushes to his right, the blade slipping silently into his hand. He circled cautiously until he spied the flash of blue fabric through the trees. Before the kid could take another step, Chief was beside him, with a firm grip on his shirt collar. "What're you doin' here?"

Matheo stood frozen in Chief's grasp, his eyes glued to the knife.

Chief pushed him forward, back toward Garrison. "That's a good way to die young, kid."

The thin line of Garrison's frown gave away his displeasure as he brushed the dirt from his hands. "You shouldn't be here, son."

"I know. Please don't tell Mama."

Garrison's eyes narrowed. "Did you follow us?"

The boy nodded.

Chief studied the wiry kid and his quick, intelligent blue eyes, and remembered what Matty had said about knowing these woods. He was a slick one - probably didn't have to make the effort to climb that first fence. "How'd you get past the barbed wire?"

Matty smiled. "Come. I'll show you."

The spot at the base of the fence was not far from where they'd climbed over earlier. Hidden below a briar thicket, partially buried in the dirt and rotting leaves under a large rock, was a neatly cut slit in the chain link, large enough for a skinny 12-year-old to scurry through. Chief and Garrison had a little more trouble, but made it through with only a tear to Garrison's shirt sleeve.

Matty moved the rock back into place and made sure the dirt and leaves looked undisturbed. "The Bosh fixed the first one I made, but they've never found this one."

They moved quickly away, melting into the tree cover, Garrison pulling Matty by the arm. "Do you know what would happen if they caught you?" he reprimanded.

"They'd take me back to Mama and yell at her to punish me."

Garrison rolled his eyes. "Maybe if you were six. But they're not going to take any chances with this place. They'd ship you and your mother and sister off to an internment camp. Or worse."

Matty smiled as if he hadn't heard a word the Warden said. "Do you want to see the tunnel?"

That brought Garrison up short. "What tunnel?"

"The one that goes through that hill over there and under the camp."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

Matheo was able to scamper through the prickly briars and over moss-slick fallen trees like a monkey, and Chief and Garrison scrambled to keep up. After a mile of this, they stopped next to a single-lane paved road that emerged from the dense forest to the north and seemed to disappear directly into the rocky hillside. A heavy gate guarded by armed sentries was letting trucks through the first fence. Just visible up the road was a similar gate through the second fence, also well guarded.

Lying quietly in the undergrowth next to Garrison, Chief studied the surrounding woodland. On his other side, Matheo started to speak, and Chief gave him a hard nudge to shut him up. As they waited, several cargo trucks were checked through the gate, their payload of crates barely visible through the opening in the canvas flaps on the back.

"Explosives," Garrison whispered, peering through the binoculars. "They bring the raw materials in this way and ship the finished product out the main gate."

A smaller, sturdier van followed the explosives carriers up to the gate. The metal doors on the back of this one were tightly closed and secured with heavy chains and locks. There were no visible guards other than the driver and another soldier in the front seat. Garrison lowered the binoculars for a wider view. As the driver waited for his turn at the check point, he got out and lit a cigarette, then inexplicably banged his fist twice against the side of the truck.

Matty duplicated Garrison's whisper. "Replacement workers."

Garrison frowned. "In a locked armored truck?"

"Prisoners," Matheo said. "Prisoners build their weapons."

"Allied prisoners?"

Matheo nodded solemnly.

With a sigh, Garrison dropped his forehead onto his folded arms.

"What now, Warden?" Chief had heard that the Nazis used slave labor in their factories, but he couldn't believe Garrison would knowingly blow up POW's.

Garrison scooted back out of their hide and silently beckoned them to follow him back the way they'd come. "This changes things," he finally said.

As they made their way along the main road into the city, the silence and the distant concentration in the Warden's eyes told Chief that the beginnings of a plan were clicking into place, and he had a feeling that tunnel was going to play a part.

gg gg gg gg gg gg

Three maps vied for space on the Messiers' dining table, as Garrison flipped back and forth between them. With one foot propped up on a chair, he lit another cigarette and shook out the match. "My guess is that the prisoners are kept somewhere inside the factory building, probably never seeing the light of day."

"And we're just gonna blow the whole place up, POW's and all?" Casino gestured at the diagram sketched onto the top map, now showing the location of the tunnel entrance. "Just like that. Boom. Collateral damage."

"Not if we can help it." Garrison continued to stare at the diagram as if the answers were hidden there in code. "If we can get inside that factory building, we have a chance of setting off our chain reaction and using the distraction to free the prisoners."

"Get inside?" Goniff spoke up from his comfortable seat on the sofa. "Ya mean just walk up to the front door and ask for the grand tour?"

"Goniff's right, Warden." Actor sat opposite Garrison, also studying the layout. "Even posing as German officers, we would need unassailable credentials just to get through the first check point."

That wicked light appeared in Garrison's eyes, the one that meant he'd found a plan. And it would be risky. "But the prisoners don't need credentials," he smiled. "If we could get hold of one of those prison transports, we could just drive right in."

The same glow lit up in Actor's eyes. "Of course. Hijack the truck, take the place of the driver and guard, free the prisoners, and take their place, too. How often do they bring in new prisoners?"

Garrison shook his head. "I don't know. We'll have to wait and..."

"Every other day," Matheo interrupted from where he'd been sitting quietly next to Chief in the window seat.

Mme. Messier dropped her sewing, looking up at her son with alarm. "Matty, how many times have I..."

The boy ignored her. "They arrive in late afternoon, like today."

Garrison's eyes narrowed. "Is it usually the same driver and guard?"

"No, almost never. They bring the prisoners from all over."

"Matty, you must stay away from there. I've lost your father. I can't lose you, too."

Garrison walked over and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "She's right, son. You've been playing with fire. You're not a child anymore. They won't hesitate to treat you like the enemy." He glanced up at Mme. Messier as if in apology. "But any other details you could give us would be a big help."

As Mme. Messier looked on with a frown, the boy filled in an amazing amount of information he'd gathered over months of just being a local kid, doing kid things. On the map, he showed them the route prisoner transports usually took on their way to the factory. He gave them guards' names and shift change schedules, telling them which shifts were the strict ones, and which were more easygoing. He identified several of the buildings inside the compound, including the soldiers' barracks and the administrative offices. And he knew where his father had stashed a supply of explosives.

By midnight, they had the outlines of a solid plan.

The Messiers had retired to their sleeping quarters several hours ago, but the five of them had gathered around the maps and continued to rehash the details until Garrison was certain every aspect they were able to control had been considered.

The Warden lit the last of his cigarettes, crushed the empty pack into a wad, and tossed it into the middle of the cluttered table. Coffee cups sat half empty, and the ashtrays overflowed. "Security is tight, Actor. It's going to be a tough con."

"Nothing I cannot handle."

Garrison considered his con man through the haze of smoke, the only sound in the room the tick of the clock on the wall. Chief had never seen the Warden doubt Actor before, but that's what he seemed to be doing now. Actor had nearly blown a caper once when he was distracted by a dame, but that was early on, when they were all still feeling their way. Actor had _never_ blown a con.

"Really, Lieutenant," Actor scoffed. "Have I ever let you down?"

Garrison finally shook his head and crushed out the remainder of the cigarette. "No, you're right. It's been a long day. Let's clean up here and get some sleep." He gathered up the ashtrays and handed them to Chief. "Get rid of the ashes."

"Why me? They ain't my coffin nails."

"Just do it."

Chief matched Garrison's challenging glare, but took the ashtrays anyway and headed out the back door.

The narrow alley was as black as midnight in hell, but as he wandered from one end to the other, his eyes adjusted. He scattered the ashes as he went, and they caught on the light breeze, sweet with the promise of rain. Where the alley met the eerily quiet street, he stopped and spit out the chewed remains of the match stick.

The curfew left Strasbourg soundless except for the distant howling of a dog, and the blackout left the night sky salted with stars. Absently, he tore the cigarette filters into shreds, letting the freshening breeze carry them away, and he let the constellations replace his darker thoughts. The big dipper was easy - Northern Male, as his grandfather used to call it. And Pegasus. And Cassiopeia, the Northern Female.

When the door squeaked open behind him, he expected to see Casino or Goniff sneaking out for a late smoke. But it was Matteo who walked up beside him puffing on a cigarette.

"Your Mama know you smoke?"

"No. You won't tell her, will you?"

"None of my business."

The boy leaned quietly against the wall, blowing smoke into the damp air, trying to look older than his 12 years. With his solitude disrupted, Chief turned to head back inside.

"What's the medal you wear around your neck?" Matteo evidently didn't want him to leave.

"Nothin'. Just a metal."

"It's St. Christopher, isn't it? It is said he protects travelers. Is that why you wear it?"

"It was a present. From a friend." He'd given it back to her when the thought of her hurt too much, but she'd returned it. Her note had said he still needed it. He'd gotten used to its slight weight around his neck.

"When you go to destroy the factory, he will protect you. It is why I wear this." Matteo held up the small gold cross on the chain around his neck. "So God will take care of me."

"I take care of myself, kid. This is just a hunk of metal." He rubbed his thumb over the raised image on the medallion, then dropped it back inside his shirt.

The clouds were moving in, and the first drops spattered on the pavement. Tomorrow would be a long day of preparation that could make or break the whole mission. The rain wouldn't help. Chief headed for the door and went inside, leaving the kid by himself, finishing his cigarette. The others had already retired to the second floor. The cups and saucers were washed and put away, and the table cleared of the jumble of maps. Chief quickly rinsed and dried the ashtrays, and after setting them back on the table, he pulled another match stick from his pocket and returned to his window seat to listen to the rain.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite the steady drizzle, Chief had spent the day with Garrison and Actor, watching the supply trucks rumble along the road heading for the tunnel. After hours of comparing several locations, Garrison finally settled on one where he thought they'd have the best chance to hijack the prisoner transport the next day. Casino and Goniff had spent a dryer day in the basement of a bombed-out church, inventorying the explosives and other equipment the Resistance had stored there before high-tailing it into the hills. At dusk, they all met back at the safe house.

Chief had just wiped the remainder of the chicken gravy from his plate with his last bit of bread when the little girl came to take his plate. She smiled and murmured something in French.

Across the table from him, Actor translated. "Louise says she forgives you."

"For what?"

"For killing the chicken."

He recalled the child rushing from the room when he'd snapped the neck of the chicken they'd brought with them. Mme. Messier was going to have the butcher slaughter it, but Chief saved her the trouble. He'd plucked and cleaned it for her, too. "How do ya say 'I'm sorry'?"

"Je suis désolé," Actor prompted.

Chief smiled back at her and tried to duplicate Actor's French. The girl just giggled.

"Thank you, Mme. Messier." Garrison rose from his chair and began gathering dishes from the table. "That was excellent."

"Please, Lieutenant, I will clean up." Mme. Messier took the plates from him. "You men have a lot of planning to do. Feel free to stay down here and finish the wine. I will bring you those uniforms."

Garrison thanked her again. They had planned for Goniff and Actor to trade clothes with the Wehrmacht soldiers manning the prisoner transport, but when Actor had expressed concern that neither or those uniforms would likely fit him well enough, Mme. Messier had the perfect solution - nice clean, mended uniforms she was about to return to their owners at the factory. She was sure she had one that would fit Actor's tall frame.

As Mme. Messier and the kids finished clearing the table, Garrison once again covered it with his maps. He pointed to the newly penciled-in line that represented the road to the tunnel. "This spot is fairly isolated between two sharp curves. If we work quickly, we should be able to make the switch before any other traffic comes along. How's the bomb coming, Casino?"

From a burlap sack, Casino pulled a bundle of dynamite sticks wrapped together with electrical tape. Attached with several wires was a contraption consisting of a small clock and a wooden box about the size of a deck of cards. He gingerly placed the lethal device in the center of the table. "All ready to be armed. But the maximum time on this thing is eleven hours and fifty-nine minutes. Can't set it for any longer than that. Our timing better be perfect."

Goniff studied it from a safe distance. "So how're we gettin' that thing into the factory? One of us have to wear it or somethin'?"

"We could strap it to your bum, and you could invite yourself to dinner with the commandant," Actor suggested.

Goniff smirked at him.

"We're wiring it to the underside of the prisoner transport. It's up to you two to come up with a con to keep the truck parked next to the storage facility overnight."

Actor thoughtfully tapped his pipe against his palm. "Perhaps some kind of engine trouble. Chief, any ideas?"

"I think I can find somethin' to break." Chief exchanged smiles with Actor. He liked knowing something the conman didn't.

Garrison studied the map for a moment longer, then looked at each of them. "Any questions?"

"What about the prisoners on the truck?" Casino asked. "The ones we're taking the place of?"

"We can give them maps, clothes, a few weapons, and directions to Switzerland. After that, they're on their own. It's better than being locked up in a Nazi labor camp." Garrison straightened and shook his head, his frown giving away how dissatisfied he was with the situation. "As for the ones already in the plant, once we make our break, they're on their own, too. A chance at freedom is all we can give them."

Casino crushed out his cigarette and finished off his glass of wine. "Yeah, if any of us get out."

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They'd hidden among the trees on the side of the road all afternoon, watching the convoys of trucks pass by every hour or so, waiting for the locked, armored one that would carry prisoners destined to work themselves to death building bombs to destroy their own families and friends. As the shadows grew, Chief wondered if this would be the one time the Germans wouldn't follow their schedule. He'd prepared himself to get this mission done fast, now. He didn't relish having to pull back and wait another day or two.

Sitting next to him on the damp ground, leaning against a tree, Goniff had stopped fidgeting and dozed off, his forehead resting on his arms folded across his knees. Chief envied that ability to just shut down.

The grumble of another approaching engine reached him on the northerly breeze, and once again he whistled to get Garrison's attention across the road.

Startled by the whistle, Goniff jerked awake. "This the one?"

The truck that rounded the sharp curve was smaller than the equipment transports, and enclosed entirely in steel. With a smile, Chief punched Goniff on the arm and got to his feet. "Show time."

They pulled it off as quickly and smoothly as they had countless other hijackings over the months. Garrison shot out a front tire, the pop of his silenced gun lost in the whine of the engine, and the heavy vehicle veered to a stop with a screech of metal on asphalt. When the driver and his passenger got out to investigate, neither saw their attackers coming. Goniff looped the garrote around the passenger's neck and pulled tight. With one powerful punch of his knife, Chief severed the driver's spinal column.

Chief snatched the ring of keys from the ignition and tossed them to Garrison, who started to work unlocking the back of the truck. Casino scooted underneath to attach the explosives.

Chief joined Garrison and Actor at the back of the truck as the chains slipped free. They stepped back out of the line of fire, weapons drawn, as Garrison pulled one door open, ready to confront whoever might be on the other side. But there was no guard inside, only five men dressed in tattered Wehrmacht fatigues, huddling as far into the shadows as their manacles would let them, shielding their eyes from the sudden sunlight. They looked dazed, like coons caught in a flashlight beam.

Garrison boosted himself up into the truck. "I'm Lieutenant Garrison, Allied Intelligence. Anyone in charge here?"

From the middle of the group, a skinny, dark-haired man spoke up. "I'm Colonel Reams, 96th Bomber Group." He nodded to the men surrounding him. " And my crew...what's left of them."

Garrison gave the Colonel a brief salute and started unlocking their shackles. "You fly-boys ready for a long walk?"

Reams rubbed at his newly freed wrists, warily eying Actor standing on the ground at the back of the truck in his Wehrmacht major's uniform. "What's happening, Lieutenant?"

"We're going to blow up that munitions factory up ahead, and we need this truck. Didn't think you'd mind giving it up."

"Just the three of you?" Reams sounded dubious.

"Five of us," Garrison corrected as Goniff and Casino joined Chief and Actor. "C'mon, let's move it before traffic gets heavy."

While Actor and Goniff changed the flat tire, Chief, Casino and Garrison started exchanging clothes with the young fliers. Chief could see the questions in the eyes of the kid whose ragged fatigues he was putting on, but they worked quickly, keeping conversation to the bare necessities. Chief's pants and shirt hung loose on the boy's scrawny frame.

Once changed, Chief showed Actor which hose he'd have to cut in the truck's engine in order to effectively disable it, and Garrison briefed the Colonel on his best route to the Swiss border. Reams wanted to stay behind and help, but Garrison convinced him that he and his crew had been through enough. His task now was to get them to safety. With a salute and a 'thanks', the five airmen melted away into the woods.

Chief's stomach coiled into a knot as soon as Actor snapped the shackles around his ankle. His left arm cuffed to the metal bench only made it worse. Then the heavy door clanged shut, leaving them in total darkness, and he heard the chains rattle into place as Actor locked them in. He took a deep breath and swallowed hard, fighting the visceral panic that bubbled up like lava.

Next to him, Garrison's manacles rattled as he shifted on the bench. "Take it easy, Chief. Focus on the plan."

Across from him, he heard Casino yank at his own bindings. "Yeah, this time tomorrow, it'll be all over. We'll either be headed home, or dead."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

As the truck slowed to a stop at each checkpoint, Chief held his breath. If Actor or Goniff blew it, if the guards suspected anything haywire, the game was over. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief when the truck finally halted and the engine died. They were inside the factory.

Through the truck's steel walls, they could barely make out the conversation outside between Actor and the Germans. Garrison leaned in and whispered, "He's telling them there's only three of us because the other two died along the way."

Then the rear doors swung open, and Chief found himself shielding his eyes from the low afternoon sun, just like the real captured fliers had. He wondered if he looked as dazed and helpless.

Goniff was the one with the keys this time. He hopped into the back and started unshackling them as two uniformed guards and a lieutenant held weapons trained on them. Goniff was having a hard time stifling a grin as he shoved each of them off the back of the truck.

When one of the guards started frisking Garrison, Goniff was quick to jump down and help out, starting with Casino. And he was convincingly thorough. Chief caught Casino's angry grimace that promised swift and painful payback if they got out of this alive. When it was his turn, Chief put up with the humiliating groping. He'd had worse. As much as Goniff seemed to be enjoying it, Chief knew he was just playing a part. Amid all the grabbing and pawing, Chief felt the gentle tug when Goniff dropped the wad of C-3 into his pants pocket. He knew his blade and a box of matches were strapped to it with fuse cord.

As the German officer and his men herded them at rifle-point toward the factory building, Chief stole a glance back over his shoulder. Actor was doing a convincing job of faking engine trouble, making the truck sputter and jerk as it pulled up close to one of the smaller warehouses, the one Garrison had guessed stored the explosives. The next task was for Actor and Goniff to get around to the tunnel entrance and make it safe for their escape. Just the two of them, against two heavily guarded checkpoints. At least the explosions would be some distraction. The guard shoved the rifle bore into the middle of his back and pushed him forward.

At the end of a long, stark hallway, they were prodded onto a freight elevator that took them down to yet another bleak hallway. The walls thrummed with the steady drone and incessant drum-like cadence of large machinery overhead. Half way down the second hallway, a heavy metal door was unlocked, and they were pushed inside.

"This is your new home, gentlemen." The German officer's heavy accent was difficult to understand. "Your dinner will be served soon." And with that, the guard detail left, slamming and locking the door behind them.

The smell hit Chief first - the damp stench of mold, unwashed bodies, and the barely-working toilet in a far corner. This may once have been a store room, but it was now crammed with a dozen two-tier bunk beds. They lined each wall, with a row down the center of the cell. Almost all were occupied. A steel barrel of oily looking liquid sat next to the door. Probably the drinking water. Several dented cups hung from nails above it. On the floor next to it were two large iron pots crusted with the dried, yellowish remains of what must've been the last meal. A pile of dirty metal bowls sat on the floor next to them.

"Welcome to hell." A gaunt man, slightly bent and nearly bald, approached them with an extended hand. "I'm Colonel Myers, U. S. Army. I'm the ranking officer here, as if that means anything."

Garrison shook the man's hand. "Lieutenant Garrison, 96th Bomber Group. My crew." He nodded toward Chief and Casino.

"Make yourselves at home." Myers sighed heavily, the weariness that bent his shoulders also dragging down his voice. "You're welcome to any empty bunk. You should get some rest while you can. Shift changes in several hours."

"Shift change?" Garrison feigned innocence, feeling the Colonel out.

"This is a munitions factory, Lieutenant. Twelve hour shifts. It changes at midnight, then we go to work and the other shift gets these bunks. I suggest you get as much sleep as you can now."

"Thank you, Colonel..." But the man had already wandered back to his own bunk. Only a couple of the others even glanced up.

Chief found the nearest empty bottom bunk and stretched out on the bare, thin horse-hair mattress. The factory noise wasn't quite as loud in here, but it still vibrated in his head. The smell and the heat were suffocating.

Casino sat at the foot of the bunk, and Garrison lowered himself to the floor, leaning against it.

"You guys got your packages?" The Warden's question was a whisper.

"Yep." Casino scooted back and leaned against the cinderblock wall. Goniff had slipped Casino a C-3 package, too, but hadn't had the chance to give Garrison his.

"Think we have enough?"

"Yeah, I think so." Casino studied the door they'd come through, then turned his attention to what looked like a loading dock door that took up half of the opposite wall. It had been sealed up with cement blocks. "I wonder where that leads?"

Chief studied it, too. "Probably the tunnel."

"Yeah?" Casino sounded unconvinced.

"Layout's right." Chief had tried to keep directions and dimensions in his head as they'd moved, and by his calculations, the tunnel should be right on the other side of that wall.

"And the timer's set for midnight?" Garrison turned to look up at Casino.

"Yep, that kid knew what he was talking about. It'll blow right as the shift changes."

"Okay, remember, there could be snitches among the..."

"Rainy? Is that you?" A black-haired young man stood at the foot of the bunk, smiling.

Chief hadn't answered to that name in a long time. Hearing it here was unsettling. But there was something about this guy's dark eyes. And the way his straight hair poked up in a cowlick on the back of his head. Chief sat up.

"It is you!" The guy's grin widened. "Remember me? Marty Gomez. You used to call me Chishi."

It had been a very long time, but it was the same kid. The only Apache in a mission school full of Navajo boys, he'd been young and small and bullied. Chief had been only eleven himself, but he knew what being different felt like. He'd stood up for the kid in the school yard one day and taken a pretty good beating for it, too. After that, Marty stuck to him like a burr. He hadn't been a bad kid. Just a complication.

"Yeah. Marty..." Chief looked to his commander, not sure how much he should say.

"You two know each other?" Garrison asked.

"Yeah, small world, right?" Marty leaned against the bunk frame. "We were both stuck in the Indian school together back in the day. They tried to make us into white kids. As I recall, Rainy here wasn't going to let them make him into anything."

"Rainy, huh?" Casino chuckled. "Yeah, that fits."

"Can it, Casino." This wasn't good. Marty was a complication they didn't need.

"Last I knew, they shipped you back to the reservation. All the nuns said you'd end up dead. Or spending your life in prison. So now you're in the Air Force, huh?"

"Yeah..." Chief wiped his palms down his thighs, the sweat not entirely from the heat.

"Tough luck you ended up here."

Garrison broke in to redirect the conversation. "Listen, Marty, what can you tell us about what's going on here?"

With a questioning glance at Chief, Marty took a seat on the floor next to Garrison and filled in details for them about the number of prisoners, their condition, the work and meal schedules, and guard movements.

"What do you know about Myers?" Garrison finally asked.

"Career Army, a nice enough guy. But this place has taken a lot out of him." Marty breathed a heavy sigh. "It's taken a lot out of all of us."

They were interrupted when the metallic clank of the door being unlocked signaled the arrival of the evening meal.

'Meal' was a fancy name for what they were given. Two more pots of a thin, pale gruel, and a tray of bread. The cell came to life as men rushed for the food, grabbing up bowls and dipping them into the slop.

Chief followed Casino and Garrison to the rear of the crowd, and Colonel Myers came up behind them. "This is it until mid-morning tomorrow," he told them. "I know you're probably hungry, but we need to leave enough for the guys coming off their work shift in a few hours."

Garrison nodded his understanding. "Yes, sir. Two meals a day...is that all you get?"

"That's it, Lieutenant. Like I said, welcome to hell."

Chief took his bowl and chunk of bread back to his bunk, while Garrison and Casino settled onto the empty one next to his. He thought Marty was about to join him, but instead he walked past to a bunk near the toilet. The soldier there had not gotten up to get his share, but huddled into the corner, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. His pale skin was taut on the hard angles of his face. He looked more like a pile of dirty laundry, the way the fatigues swallowed him. Marty handed the man a bowl and some bread and spoke softly to him, then he returned to sit beside Chief with his own food.

"Tommy's been here the longest of any of us," Marty explained through the wad of bread he was chewing. "I'm scared he'll soon be one of the disappeared."

"He's really sick?"

"I try to sneak him extra, but it don't make no difference. Those that can't carry their own weight on the assembly line just eventually end up not coming back."

"What happens to 'em?"

Marty frowned and shrugged, turning his attention back to his mush. After a couple of bites, he looked up, pulling out a small leather bag hanging on a cord around his neck. "Look, I still have mine. You still got yours?"

The medicine pouch. At the mission school, they'd both kept one hidden under their shirt. They were pagan and forbidden. But the pouches had been their secret, holding small treasures, their shield against the evil magic of the nuns. He couldn't remember where he'd lost his. Statenville, maybe. Or maybe earlier. It had disappeared when it stopped holding any meaning for him, pagan or otherwise. "Nah. Lost it a long time ago."

"Mine always made me feel safe. Like it protected me from bad luck."

"Ya mean like gettin' shot out of the sky?"

"I'm still alive, ain't I?" Marty grinned. "The game ain't over yet."

"The Krauts let you keep it?"

"Guess they don't see it as a threat."

They shared the rest of their meal in silence. Eventually, Marty returned both their bowls to the stack by the pots and went back toward his own bunk on the other side of the room, not saying another word.

"Chief." The Warden nodded Chief over to join him and Casino at the neighboring bunk. Chief leaned a shoulder against the bunk's frame

"Do you think you can trust him?" Garrison asked.

"How should I know. Last time I saw him, he was eight." Chief looked over to where Marty was talking softly again with Tommy. "Yeah, probably. He was a nice kid."

"We're going to need all the help we can get. The Colonel seems to have given up."

"They're all pretty beaten down." Casino fidgeted with his shirt tail. He probably needed a cigarette. "Don't look like any of them have the strength to stand, much less make a run for it."

"We'll help the ones we can..." Garrison let the sentence trail off and took a deep breath. "Let's get some rest. We got a few more hours before the fireworks start."

Chief went back and stretched out on the hard, smelly mattress, but sleep was impossible. Memories he thought he'd buried deep years ago were suddenly as vivid as the hot summer sun through stained glass...

gg gg gg gg gg gg

 _So what if he'd thrown the first punch. Willie had started it. Rain couldn't just let the jerk get away with calling his mother dirty names. Even if she had run off with a white man. And even if he couldn't remember what she looked like. Her face faded from his memory more every day, like the remnants of a dream he once had. He wiped at the wet streaks on his face with the sleeve of his sweater. The tears made him angry, but the angrier he got, the more they came._

 _He wrapped the thin sweater more tightly around himself and huddled on the floor as close to the meager warmth of the radiator as he could get. Sister Benedict had ordered him to kneel at the altar and recite Hail Marys until she came to get him, but he was cold, and his empty stomach hurt. Going without dinner was usually the punishment for fighting at the mission school. He wouldn't get anything else to eat until after morning prayers._

 _But this was his spot, his safe, quiet place, whenever he was put in detention. This hard little corner where the radiator pipes poked into his ribs, and where he could see the huge glass picture that was the window on the other side of the Chapel. It was dark and subdued now, not like when the sun made it glow during morning prayers. It was his favorite, with its glistening golds and reds and vivid blues. A picture of a birthday party. A family, a mother and a father leaning over, protecting their new baby. And friends bringing presents, maybe candy or a toy car. And sheep and a mule. The glass picture on the other side, the one now over his head, scared him a little. There were thorns and blood and dark sadness. He didn't look at it if he didn't have to._

 _When he heard the lock rattle and the hinges of the big Chapel door creak open, he straighten and swiped his sleeve across his runny nose. Sister Benedict would give him a good beating for not saying his prayers, but he wasn't going to let her see him cry._

 _"_ _Rainy? You in here?"_

 _It was just Marty. Rain wondered where the pipsqueak had gotten the key. "Over here."_

 _Marty's bony little body tucked in close to him, bringing more warmth than the radiator did. "Here, I brought you this."_

 _From the greasy wadded napkin Marty handed him, Rain unfolded a fried chicken leg and a biscuit with butter. The smell made his stomach growl. He shoved the biscuit into his sweater pocket for later, and sank his teeth greedily into the chicken._

 _"_ _Thanks," he mumbled as he chewed. "You shouldn't be here. You'll get in trouble."_

 _"_ _Willie's nose wouldn't stop bleedin'." Rain could hear Marty grinning in the dim candle light. "You shoulda seen it. Blood all over his food and everything. And he was screamin' like he was dyin' or somethin'. They had to take him to the infirmary."_

 _Rain allowed himself a smile, too. That image was worth all the detentions he'd ever suffered because of the likes of Willie Bey and his buddies. But it wasn't worth the dumb little Apache getting in trouble, too. "You really gotta get outta here, Chishi, before the Sister comes back."_

 _"_ _Is that a bad name?" Marty had a way of not hearing when he didn't want to do something. "Does it mean something dirty? It sounds like it does."_

 _"_ _Naw. It's just Navajo for 'Apache', that's all."_

 _"_ _That's okay, then."_

 _Rain tore off a piece of chicken meat and held it out to Marty._

 _"_ _Naw, I'm full."_

 _That was a lie. None of them were ever full. But he didn't push it._

 _"_ _Is your name really Raymond?" Marty asked._

 _The kid was too full of questions. But he had brought Rain the chicken. "Heck, no. It's the 'Christian' name the nuns gave me. Is Marty your real name?"_

 _"_ _Martin. But my Pa used to call me Marty."_

 _Sister Benedict was going to come busting through that big door any minute. "Will ya get lost if I give you somethin'?"_

 _Marty looked up at him like a beaten puppy. "Maybe..."_

 _Rain licked the last of the meat and grease from the chicken leg, dried it on his sweater sleeve, then snapped it in half. Or almost in half. He gave the larger piece to Marty. "Put this in your medicine pouch for good luck." Then he pulled his own small leather pouch from beneath his shirt and stuffed the other piece into the top, through the draw strings. "As long as we both have our half, you'll always be safe."_

 _Marty grinned as he tucked the broken bone into the pouch on the cord around his neck and pushed it back inside his shirt, hidden from the nuns._

 _The heavy Chapel door swung back and banged against the wall, startling both of them. Then the bright overhead light came on. "Master Martin, how in the world did you get in here?"_

 _Sister Benedict swooped down the center aisle like a huge black crow and pulled Marty to his feet by the collar of his shirt. Right behind her was Father Doyle, tall and thick and stern. He pinned Rain with a cold glare. "Have you finished your Hail Marys, Master Raymond?"_

 _Rain pushed to his feet and faced the big man squarely, and lied through his teeth. "Yes, Father Doyle."_

 _"_ _Sister Benedict, please escort Master Martin back to his dormitory. Master Raymond, follow me. I will hear your confession now."_

 _Dutifully, with some food in his stomach and the anticipation of the buttered biscuit later, Rain followed the priest to the confessional and closed himself inside. When he heard the Father settle onto the seat on the other side of the screen, he began. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned..."_


	3. Chapter 3

Time dragged as Chief lay awake, staring at the metal springs of the empty bunk above him, trying to shut out the relentless hum and pounding of the factory. Around him he could occasionally hear snoring, or a labored moan. But his thoughts traveled back to the mission school, Marty, Willie and the other kids. And the nuns. In his memory, they were large, black and alien. But he'd loved the classes. The books, the math, the amazing stories of history. The learning. He just couldn't seem to stay out of trouble.

It was almost time. Some internal sense told him it was close to 11:30. He heard the springs on the next bunk squeak, and Garrison was at his side. "Let's start getting organized. Go get your pal Marty."

Chief roused Marty from a light sleep. The kid rubbed his eyes and blearily let Chief push him over to Major Myers' bunk, where Garrison and Casino had gathered.

Myers looked perturbed at being awakened. "What's going on, Lieutenant?"

Garrison didn't try to keep his voice low. He needed everyone to hear. "Colonel, we're a commando unit sent here to destroy this facility."

"You're joking..."

"No joke. Here's what's going to happen..."

While Garrison explained the plan to Myers, Marty, and all the others who gathered around, Chief helped Casino set the explosives. Using the point of his blade to dig into the mortar between the cement blocks grated on his nerves, but it's what Casino needed to place the C-3. The knife was just a tool. He could get another one.

They had the explosives in place and the fuses attached quickly, then turned to building a barrier against the blast, using the mattresses and bed frames. The prisoners worked in a daze, no one questioning what must've seemed like a crazy plan. They were hollow shells of men, so used to obeying impossible orders that one more didn't seem any worse than any of the others. They had long ago accepted whatever fate was going to throw at them.

Marty, supporting Tommy, was the last to squeeze in behind the makeshift shield. The plan was to wait for the blast outside that would set off the chain reaction before Casino lit his fuse. Long minutes ticked by as the factory above them continued to buzz and pound through the walls. Sweat, tension and fear hung in the crowded space like a thick cloud.

Garrison shifted nervously. "Casino..."

"I know, Warden, I know. Just give it a minute..."

Through the door to his left, out in the hallway, Chief heard the approaching foot steps - the other prisoners being returned to the cell after their shift. "Warden, it's about to get a lot more crowded."

Garrison had heard it, too. All he had to do was nod, and Chief and Casino took up positions on either side of the door, each ready with their knife. The lock rattled, and the door swung inward. First through was the single file of prisoners, dragging after 12 hours on the assembly line. As they entered, a few looked up in puzzlement at the bizarre bunk arrangement against the wall, and Garrison stepped forward to keep them moving. Unable to see beyond the crowd of men they herded, the three Germans at the back of the group stopped just inside the threshold, ready to escort the next shift up to the factory floor. At their first sight of the odd scene in the cell, they hesitated. It was their downfall. Chief punctured the heart of one, and Casino slit the throat of a second. It was taking Garrison longer to strangle the third with a length of the fuse cord. Chief ended the Kraut's suffering with a quick stab to the chest.

Garrison began gathering and distributing the weapons - pistols, rifles, knives, ammunition - and his shout got the attention of the stunned crowd. "The explosives warehouse is going to blow any minute. Then we're going to take out that wall. Follow us and we'll do our best to get you out of here and..."

The massive explosion shook the walls and rattled the pots, and everyone ducked involuntarily. A second deafening blast followed almost immediately. Then all hell broke loose. Frightened prisoners panicked. Some bolted for the open door, stumbling over the dead soldiers and pushing their comrades out of the way in their rush for freedom. Others stood like statues, frozen by fear, waiting for the world to end.

Garrison raised his voice above the chaotic din. "Everybody get behind the mattresses or out in the hall. Now!" Then he turned to Casino. "Light the fuse. Let's get out of here."

As the fuse burned toward the C-3, they grabbed as many of the confused and unprotected as they could and pulled them to safety. The blast that took out the wall left Chief's ears ringing. Before the smoke could settle, men were rushing for the jagged opening, coughing, stumbling over debris, and leaping into the gaping hole.

Garrison and Casino started pushing laggers toward the tunnel. Chief looked around for Marty, and saw the kid lifting Tommy from behind the mattress barrier and dragging him toward the escape. Chief gave him a shove in the right direction, then turned his attention back to helping the Warden and Casino herd everyone out, one way or the other.

In the tunnel, the light was dim from widely spaced and flickering overhead lamps. Garrison had a flashlight, and so did someone farther up the tunnel. They kept moving as fast as they could, shoving the stragglers, helping those they could.

Two more explosions shook the ground and echoed through the tunnel. Somewhere behind them, rock cracked like thunder, and dirt and debris rained down on him. A wall shifted.

Glancing back, Chief caught sight of Marty, still dragging Tommy's dead weight. Colonel Myers had stepped up beside him, and he lifted Tommy out of Marty's grasp, taking the weight on himself. Then Marty dashed back the way they'd come, back toward hell.

Chief tried to scream. Grit clogged his throat. Something heavy hit his shoulder, knocking him to his hands and knees. The tunnel behind him disappeared in a deafening torrent of boulders, dust and smoke.

"Chief!" Garrison grabbed him around the waist, pulling him to his feet, dragging him toward the north, and freedom.

"No...Marty..."

"It's too late. This whole place is about to collapse."

Chief tried to pull free of the Warden's grip, but his strength failed him, sucked out by the reality that hit him in the gut. Garrison shoved him forward. He almost stumbled, then caught his balance and ran blindly toward the entrance, out of the disintegrating tunnel.

gg gg gg gg gg gg

Chief clutched his left arm against his side, trying to hold it still, but every step sent lightening bolts through his shoulder. He lost track of how far they'd traveled, staying away from the roads and skirting the open fields. By the time the Warden called a halt, he was struggling to get enough air into his lungs. He collapsed against a tree and slid to the ground.

Garrison knelt beside to him. "You okay?"

"I'll make it."

But Actor was immediately on his left, gently probing his shoulder. Chief sucked in a gasp.

"What happened?" Actor asked.

"A rock...when the tunnel went..."

Actor exchanged a frown with Garrison, then looked back at Chief. "Take a deep breath. Try to relax. This will hurt."

Without further warning, Actor carefully pulled Chief's arm out to the side, and began lifting it. The pain exploded through his muscles, the world tilted into black, he thought he was going to pass out. Then he felt the pop as his shoulder snapped back into place. As his breathing slowed, the fire in his shoulder eased to a throbbing burn.

Using his own belt and Goniff's, Actor immobilized Chief's shoulder, strapping his arm across his middle. "How does that feel?"

"It's okay," he lied. "Thanks."

"The muscle spasms should subside after a while."

They all sat silently in the forest, catching their breath, letting the breeze dry the sweat, listening and watching for any sign of approaching Krauts. Finally, Goniff pulled a pack of cigarettes from a pocket and lit one.

"Put it out," Garrison snapped.

"Aw, c'mon, Warden, there ain't no Gerries anywhere..."

"I said put it out. You can smoke when we get to Switzerland."

Goniff sighed and crushed the cigarette on a rock.

"Yeah, not that I'm complaining or anything, but where is everybody?" Casino asked from where he'd stretched out along a fallen log. "You'd think these woods would be swarming with Gerries."

"They're probably still trying to save their munitions plant," Garrison guessed. "No use wasting manpower searching for a bunch of escaped slaves."

Casino spoke quietly, as if he were just talking to himself. "How many d'ya think got away?"

In the silence, Chief thought the Warden hadn't heard. Garrison stared into the dense forest, motionless, lost in some far-off thought. Finally he ran a hand through his damp hair and let out a long breath. "We'll probably never know."

Then Garrison turned to him. "Chief, there's nothing you could've done."

The image had been replaying over and over in his head like a broken newsreel. Marty, running headlong back into the darkness and smoke. The ceiling of the tunnel roaring down in an avalanche of boulders. Nobody survived that. "Yeah, stupid punk."

Garrison eased to his feet and picked up his rifle. "Let's get going. We may make the Swiss border by tomorrow night."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

"Ya gotta put the lid back on tighter than that." Casino yanked the can from Goniff's hand, set it on the work table, and whacked the top with a hammer. "If ya don't, the paint will dry up."

Goniff had gotten good at ignoring Casino's rants. He rolled his eyes and took the can to stack it inside the new shed with the rest of their tools. "Are we done yet? I'm famished. I ain't had a bite to eat since lunch."

Chief's stomach growled. He'd skipped lunch to try to finish the painting. Between back-to-back missions, they hadn't had a lot of time to work on the shed, and he was more than ready to be done with it. He slapped a final brush-full of olive drab onto the door frame, then stood back to make sure he hadn't missed anything. The building was solid, sturdy, and ugly.

At the sound of the approaching jeep, his heart sank. Again, already?

When the jeep stopped, Garrison climbed from behind the wheel. He stood in front of the shed, his hands on his hips, giving it the once-over. "Good job, guys. Could've been a nicer color, but I guess that's all the Army had."

Chief picked up a turpentine-soaked rag and scrubbed at the specks of paint on his hands. "Where to this time, Warden?"

Garrison joined them at the charred and now paint-splattered picnic table. "Nowhere. Except maybe the mess hall. How's the shoulder?"

"Good." Chief raised his arm and rolled his shoulder. It still twinged a little if he let it stiffen up.

"Actor, Goniff, Casino, why don't you guys go clean up for dinner. I want to talk to Chief for a minute."

Shit. Now what? It couldn't be that argument with Casino the other night. That hadn't been a real fight, just loud. He couldn't even remember what it had been about. Casino caught his eye and frowned, but climbed into the truck next to Goniff as Actor pulled away, heading back toward the mansion.

Garrison sat at the picnic table and motioned for Chief to join him. Chief eased onto the bench opposite his commander. From his pocket, Garrison pulled a wad of leather and handed it across the table to him. A pouch cinched with cotton string, decorated with blue glass beads, with the initials M.G. crudely branded on one side.

"Where'd you get this?"

"A Red Cross representative brought it by today."

"How'd he...?"

"All the Red Cross knows is that at least 15 men made it out of that factory alive. One of them gave them this and asked that they get it to you."

"Marty...?"

Garrison just shook his head. "Still listed as missing in action."

Chief turned the little pouch over in his hands. The cord that had hung it around Marty's neck was gone, as was most of the fringe. But the leather was the color of a fawn and buttery soft. It had always looked so big hanging around the scrawny kid's neck.

"What is it?" Garrison quietly asked.

"A medicine pouch." He saw the question in Garrison's eyes. "Ya keep stuff in it to protect you. Kinda like a lucky charm. It's suppose to be powerful magic."

"What kind of stuff?"

"I dunno. It's personal." The little bag looked worn and insignificant, just a scrap of leather scrounged from a trash heap somewhere, crudely sewn up with string that was beginning to fray. Chief brushed dust and debris from a spot on the table, and carefully emptied the contents into a small pile.

A smooth, rounded river pebble with flecks of fool's gold. Marty had insisted it was going to buy him a fancy car one day. The misshapen tin soldier they'd found partially buried in a corner of the school yard. Marty had tried to bend its leg back into place, but it had snapped off, so it had become the amputee tin soldier, the valiant wounded warrior. The pair of dice they'd stolen from one of the board games. Willie Bey had taught them to shoot craps with them.

And half a chicken bone.

His breath caught in his chest. That night in the candle-lit chapel, when he'd snapped the bone and given Marty half, he'd promised the kid it'd keep him safe. Marty had believed it, had held onto it. And he hadn't. He'd never believed.

Chief scooped up the pile of trinkets, shoved them back into the pouch, and got up from the table. "It's just stupid kids' stuff. Superstition, that's all. A lot a good it did him."

"It wasn't your fault, Chief."

"I know that," he snapped. "The idiot got hisself killed, believin' in that shit. The only thing ya can depend on in this crap shoot is yourself."

"You gave it your best shot. It's all you can do."

He felt Garrison's eyes on him, waiting for a response. He didn't have one. Finally, Garrison said, "Let's go. Dinner's getting cold."

"Naw, you go ahead. I'll walk."

"Suit yourself." Garrison stood and headed back to the jeep. "Don't be too late. Goniff will eat it all."

Chief smiled in spite of himself. That wasn't too far from the truth.

As the jeep disappear around the bend, he picked up the pouch from where it still sat on the table and hefted it in his hand. Luck? There was no such thing. After you gave it your best, there was nothing else. No magic spirit was going to swoop down from the sky and save you. You look out for yourself. And for your teammates. You make your own luck.

His first thought was to heave the thing into the woods, as far as he could throw it. But he couldn't make himself do it. Maybe the kid had family somewhere who cared about him and would want to know what happened. Who'd want to hold onto the power of the memories. He stuffed the pouch into his pocket and set out along the short cut back to the mansion, dinner, and home.


End file.
